ashen-faced, set off for his room. Soames 267 pushed his way through the crowd, barking at the Wintertons, 268 ‘You’re cunts – and ugly ones to boot.’
It is not good news. Two minutes ago I was standing by the tape machine outside the Smoking Room (reading about the Bishop of Gloucester who has resigned after admitting an act of gross indecency with a novice monk) when Bill Cash wandered up and said to me, ‘You lot will all be grateful to us in due course. We’re doing what you wantto do, but don’t dare. We’re saving the country.’ Ian Taylor 269 came past, ‘And destroying the government in the process. Thank you very much.’
10.30 p.m.: This has been my forty-fifth birthday and memorable in its way. We have just had another vote. I came through the lobby with the Foreign Secretary. ‘What happens now?’ He was philosophical. ‘These things happen. We just plod on.’ Wisely, I think, I didn’t wish him many happy returns of the day.
WEDNESDAY 17 MARCH 1993
Treasury prayers. Incredibly, the view seems to be that the Budget’s gone down fairly well. Well, yes, Norman’s performance was fine, and the general message – taxes rises to support recovery and reduce debt – has been got across, but in the watering holes and the corridors of the Palace of Westminster the natives are rather more restive than the ministers seem to realise. They don’t like VAT on domestic fuel. Nick Winterton is spluttering with indignation. Elizabeth Peacock’s ample bosom is heaving in outrage. David Shaw 270 is beady-eyed and adamant – ‘We won’t wear it’ – and when it comes to a campaign – and he’s planning one – I imagine he’s a terrier. Last night the Tea Room was working itself into a fine old lather about it. Lamont and Portillo both seem to think the ‘brouhaha will blow over’: ‘we need the money and it’s a green tax in line with our Rio commitments. End of matter.’ I doubt it.
What was particularly fascinating to me was to discover that Peter Lilley knew nothing about the proposal till yesterday morning. It seems almost incredible that prior to taking the decision to increase pensioners’ fuel bills by 8 per cent next year and 17.5 per cent the year after, there was no consultation with Lilley of any kind, but I suppose I’ve been here nearly a year so nothing should surprise me now.
TUESDAY 23 MARCH 1993
In the Kremlin Boris Yeltsin is struggling for survival. In Downing Street John Major is doing much the same. The headlines only feature the generals and the handful of foot soldiers who step out of line. What about the rest of us? There are 651 MPs, a hundred or so in government, fifty or so on the opposition front bench. That leaves around 500 backbenchers milling about Westminster, looking for something to do. Inevitably someof them get up to mischief. Broadly, on our side the colleagues fall into three groups: the old boys who’ve had their day and know it, some accepting it gracefully (Geoffrey Johnson-Smith, Terence Higgins), 271 others rather more grudgingly (John Biffen); the middle-aged ones who are going nowhere and either accept it (like the sweet man who shares the quiet room in the Library with me, whose name nobody knows and never will) or exploit it (Winterton) knowing they’ve got nothing to lose. Then there are those, like me, still burning with ambition, scurrying like dervishes round the bottom of the greasy pole. We’re here every day, from breakfast till midnight (the
average
time of finishing has been midnight this session), darting from one committee to the next, signing letters, tabling questions, meeting constituents, being busy, busy, busy – but, frankly, to how much avail? Today I’ve done the Railways Bill, bench duty, a question to the Secretary of State for Health, a question to the PM, a Ten Minute Rule Bill … I’ve not stopped … I was pleased with my speech on children’s play space: good points, well-made, coming from the heart. I went
It is not good news. Two minutes ago I was standing by the tape machine outside the Smoking Room (reading about the Bishop of Gloucester who has resigned after admitting an act of gross indecency with a novice monk) when Bill Cash wandered up and said to me, ‘You lot will all be grateful to us in due course. We’re doing what you wantto do, but don’t dare. We’re saving the country.’ Ian Taylor 269 came past, ‘And destroying the government in the process. Thank you very much.’
10.30 p.m.: This has been my forty-fifth birthday and memorable in its way. We have just had another vote. I came through the lobby with the Foreign Secretary. ‘What happens now?’ He was philosophical. ‘These things happen. We just plod on.’ Wisely, I think, I didn’t wish him many happy returns of the day.
WEDNESDAY 17 MARCH 1993
Treasury prayers. Incredibly, the view seems to be that the Budget’s gone down fairly well. Well, yes, Norman’s performance was fine, and the general message – taxes rises to support recovery and reduce debt – has been got across, but in the watering holes and the corridors of the Palace of Westminster the natives are rather more restive than the ministers seem to realise. They don’t like VAT on domestic fuel. Nick Winterton is spluttering with indignation. Elizabeth Peacock’s ample bosom is heaving in outrage. David Shaw 270 is beady-eyed and adamant – ‘We won’t wear it’ – and when it comes to a campaign – and he’s planning one – I imagine he’s a terrier. Last night the Tea Room was working itself into a fine old lather about it. Lamont and Portillo both seem to think the ‘brouhaha will blow over’: ‘we need the money and it’s a green tax in line with our Rio commitments. End of matter.’ I doubt it.
What was particularly fascinating to me was to discover that Peter Lilley knew nothing about the proposal till yesterday morning. It seems almost incredible that prior to taking the decision to increase pensioners’ fuel bills by 8 per cent next year and 17.5 per cent the year after, there was no consultation with Lilley of any kind, but I suppose I’ve been here nearly a year so nothing should surprise me now.
TUESDAY 23 MARCH 1993
In the Kremlin Boris Yeltsin is struggling for survival. In Downing Street John Major is doing much the same. The headlines only feature the generals and the handful of foot soldiers who step out of line. What about the rest of us? There are 651 MPs, a hundred or so in government, fifty or so on the opposition front bench. That leaves around 500 backbenchers milling about Westminster, looking for something to do. Inevitably someof them get up to mischief. Broadly, on our side the colleagues fall into three groups: the old boys who’ve had their day and know it, some accepting it gracefully (Geoffrey Johnson-Smith, Terence Higgins), 271 others rather more grudgingly (John Biffen); the middle-aged ones who are going nowhere and either accept it (like the sweet man who shares the quiet room in the Library with me, whose name nobody knows and never will) or exploit it (Winterton) knowing they’ve got nothing to lose. Then there are those, like me, still burning with ambition, scurrying like dervishes round the bottom of the greasy pole. We’re here every day, from breakfast till midnight (the
average
time of finishing has been midnight this session), darting from one committee to the next, signing letters, tabling questions, meeting constituents, being busy, busy, busy – but, frankly, to how much avail? Today I’ve done the Railways Bill, bench duty, a question to the Secretary of State for Health, a question to the PM, a Ten Minute Rule Bill … I’ve not stopped … I was pleased with my speech on children’s play space: good points, well-made, coming from the heart. I went
Similar Books
